


The Devil Is A Cubs Fan

by reject_sheep



Category: 2016 World Series (Baseball) - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reject_sheep/pseuds/reject_sheep
Summary: With apologies to the Cubs fans of the real world, some notes on The Devil and The Chicago Cubs.





	

He’d had season tickets since they were the White Stockings and played in Dexter Park. The first set, he’d gotten as part of an agreement with a butcher in 1870. The game was so undeniably mortal, though, that he’d kept going year after year. It was a comfort to watch the long, slow, lazy game of summer — and despite local legends, he was a mostly hands-off fan.

Everyone in Chicago knew who had the tickets for that box, so every now and then someone would show up to ask for a bargain, as was traditional. There was a man in 1919, who’d bet heavily on the Reds. They’d made an agreement that he probably wouldn’t have agreed to if it had been any other team, but after the 1906 cross-town series he felt that it was only fair. He’d enjoyed the ’45 series, despite the end result, because of a bargain he made with a man about a goat. 

There’d been a little buyer’s remorse on that one, and he always smiled when one of the Sianis heirs showed up at the park with a goat. It didn’t change the terms of his bargain, but he had decided after the third time someone had literally sacrificed a goat outside the park that he might as well at least let Billy run a franchise of the tavern in Dis. That went well enough that he started allowing delivery to the park, which often took out-of-towners by surprise, but when locals took the bursts of flame and occasional whiff of sulfur calmly in stride, they generally shook their heads and took a picture to show their friends back home in the corn how city folk lived.

On a particularly wholesome day in mid-April, early in the season, there was a knocking on the box door. Not delivery — he’d been to Devil Dogs earlier, and was planning on getting pizza at Malnati’s because they still owed him — but a cautious young lady who asked, “May I interrupt?”

He smiled, the toothy smile that he opened all of his deals with. “Of course.”

“My name is Nancy. Nancy Faust.”

He smiled wider, because nobody appreciates the symmetry of names more than the Devil himself.

“I was wondering if perhaps …”

“Say no more, my dear.”

Suffice it to say, their bargain was a benefit to both of them, with her getting to stay at the park across town playing the organ without the stress of certain other parties present, and he got in exchange the usual arrangement. The broadcaster in question moved over to the North Side — not, we must hasten to add, specifically because of this arrangement, but perhaps egged on a bit by that and a certain near-death experience which may or may not have resulted in a bit of last minute bargaining itself.

Nancy, already a perfectly respectable organist, went back to the South Side and largely out of our story. Her arrangement, like her ancestor’s, was not one with any particular frills. Hers, unlike her illustrious ancestor’s, was likely to allow for a long and stable life, and if the fires of Hell awaited her, well, the Devil was a fan of baseball, so there would probably be games to play at even then.

And so matters stood, through the death of the broadcaster (who was, indeed, put to work in the city of Hell), and through a long and storied career for the organist — during which, much to the devil’s surprise, the Other Team took a championship. He had to admit to himself that he’d been ignoring them since the 1919 series, even though they had an overwhelming win record in the cross-town series. It came as a little bit of a shock, then, when they won the championship in 2005. He checked, and sure enough Ms. Faust was still playing for them, which gave the Devil pause.

It was, he thought, time to consider the situation from a more professional standpoint. While he delegated large scale damnation to those lesser demons who were more interested in it, there was a certain expectation that he’d keep his hand in — and, for the most part, the visitors to his box at Wrigley were more than sufficient. After a hundred and some-odd years of being a fan of the team, in a mostly uncomplicated hands-off way, he felt that perhaps it was time to show his appreciation. It rankled a bit, in his sportsman’s heart, that the South Siders had won a championship pennant before his North Siders. Especially after what he’d done in ’19, and the fallout with Shoeless Joe. Innocence generally means very little to the devil.

He put out some subtle hints, and tweaked a thing or two, and made a couple of back-room deals with Chicago’s finest, until he was confident that he’d stretched the threads of fate enough to achieve his ends. 

Sure enough, that year, October began precisely as he’d planned it. It was a shame about the side effects, but humans were nothing if not resilient, so they’d cope with the losses. If they didn’t, well, that was more souls to occupy the vast cities of Hell. Either way, the devil wins. 

He was, therefore, quite pleased when the Cleveland Indians won their pennant. He’d had some dealings in maintaining the status quo with Cleveland — small deals, to keep the mascot, because there was a certain charm to the patina of a soul tarnished by clinging to the familiar old graphics — and it would be a treat for the Devil either way the series went. He planned to watch every game, from the regular bleachers in Cleveland, and from his customary box in Chicago, but never interfere. It wouldn’t be the same, being a fan, if he knew he’d actually altered events in their favor. Or otherwise. He’d just … smoothed the way, so they could prove themselves. Or not.

The Devil settled in to watch the World Series that year, with plenty of Goose Island beer — he was pleased with the way he’d guided their sellout, so he kept drinking it — and hot dogs. He invited, for the first time, lesser functionaries and a few damned souls to share the box. Never let it be said that the Devil doesn’t have a soul — he has quite a few, and he understands quite well how sometimes a kindness is more cruel than mere cruelty. So on that fateful night in October of 2016, the 1945 team was watching history unfold in a quite unexpected way.

“About time,” he said, and, “Holy cow.”

**Author's Note:**

> It started because I was reminded, again, of the White Sox organist's name. I love a good name-parallel AU/crossover/whatever, and Faust is one of my favorites. You can do pretty much anything with Faust.
> 
> But really, the meat of it is: of course The Devil is a Cubs fan. (I'm a South Sider. In the interest of Full Disclosure.) I mean, there was a curse that involved a goat. How can you resist that? (If you're me. I'm sure there are better people out there who did resist the temptation.)
> 
> 1870 is the year that the Chicago White Stockings (the team that would become the Cubs) began playing.  
> In 1906, the White Sox and the Cubs competed for the World Series.  
> 1919 is, of course, the year of the Black Sox, when the Chicago White Sox threw the world series.  
> 1945 was the Year Of The Curse - the Sianis in question was the owner of the Billy Goat Tavern. There was a goat.  
> Nancy Faust was the organist for the White Sox (and a couple of other teams here and there) for a REALLY LONG TIME.
> 
> Obviously this is an AU in more ways than one.
> 
> (All of my references are from Wikipedia, and I didn't double check anything, so apologies for any glaring errors that ruin everything. Feel free to let me know about details.)
> 
> Oh, yeah: apparently there's a group of Cubs fans who donate goats through Heifer International to negate the curse. That's pretty awesome.


End file.
